


The Canvas

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Gossip (2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jones gives Travis a canvas to be creative with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Canvas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamiflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamiflame/gifts).



> Written for dreamiflame

 

 

**Together.**

They stick together after everything, because it works. _They_ work. A smaller place, and Travis supplements the few and far between sales of his artwork with a bartending job. He drinks less these days, too. They both do. Drink less and talk more; serious talk, not just shooting the shit like before.

Travis had talked about finding another roomie, too used to _us three_ , but Jones hadn't agreed. Flat out refused the suggestion, honestly, and Travis wonders why sometimes, but he never asked again. They've learnt to trust instincts now - bad feelings, good ones, shivers down the spine. Whatever.

  
  
**Whatever.**  
  
Jones gives him a huge blank canvas for Christmas. Makes him close his eyes as she tugs him inside, and then with a flourish, _ta-daaa!_ , she presents it, shiny red bow and all. They sit in front of it later, stealing each other's noodles and staring up at all the naked white. He opens his mouth to say _hey, I have an idea_ , but she stops him. Presses her chopsticks to his lips and shakes her head.  
  
_You know what, Travis? Save it for something really important. You don't have to use it right away just because it's there, okay?_

  
  
**Okay?**  
  
January passes, the canvas is still bare. Devoid of colour, just _there_. A portal to the Arctic propped against the lounge wall. Travis looks at it for long periods of time, but shows no signs of touching it yet.  
  
In the end, Jones stands on her toes to throw a blanket over it. _All that white_ , she explains, _makes me feel cold._ Travis lifts the edge of the duvet he's under in invitation - heating bills are a bitch - but when he sees her eyes, he knows the cold that _she_ feels has little to do with the weather. 

  
  
**Weather.**  
  
_Fucking rain... I hate this fucking rain. All. The time._ Jones drops onto the couch, squeezing the ends of her hair - she's growing it out, long curls fall past her shoulders now, and they suit her - to illustrate just how much rain she's brought into the apartment with her.  
  
Travis sits on the floor to pull her wet boots off for her, grins shyly as he asks, _Coffee?_  
  
Her answering smile is worth having to run out, down to the store for more sugar because neither of them can drink coffee without. Worth getting soaked to the skin. 

  
  
**Skin.**  
  
He passes her room every morning on his way to the kitchen. And every morning, he stops, watches her for a while. She sleeps with the door open because she feels _safe_ here. She knows that _Travis would never try anything. He's not like that._ It's _not like that._ She feels safe, but not quite enough to abandon the pyjamas, to leave her skin exposed. Travis knows it's winter when she swaps cotton for flannel, bare feet for thick socks.  
  
He doesn't think she knows. _Hopes_ she doesn't. Likes looking at the soft, feline shape she makes under the sheets. 

  
  
**Sheets.**  
  
_Are you just going to stare at it all day?_ She asks, stepping carefully across the dustsheets he's put down.  
  
_I'm thinking._  
  
_Okay, Einstein. Don't think too long. Spiders are making luxury pads back there,_ she teases, peering into the shadows between the canvas and the wall. _Seriously. It'll come to you, Michaelangelo._  
  
_Yeah._  
  
There's a photograph secured to the refrigerator door with a bat-shaped magnet. It's of him, arm outstretched because he was holding the camera, and her, smiling right at the flash. Forgetting about beer, he pulls it off. Pins it to the centre of his canvas.  
  
_Inspiration._

  
  
**Inspiration.**  
  
He knows she's intrigued. He's seen her looking, tracing lines of varying shades of red, reading the text. He wonders if she's figuring it out, because there've been touches lately. Like this morning, when she'd tied his scarf for him, run her fingers through his hair.  
  
_I can't believe it's been almost a year,_ she'd said, focused on her hands, on his mouth. Her frown had been expected, fleeting. _It's freezing out there, Travis. You should put a hat on, too._  
  
He'd nodded, had wanted to touch _her_ hair, but she'd moved away too quickly, left him reaching through air. 

  
  
**Air.**  
  
_I don't know,_ he says, _anyone like you._ Dutch courage, there's half a bottle of cheap vodka with a year's worth of longing behind the words.  
  
_What, sophisticated?_ She asks, laughing and throwing popcorn at his back as he works.  
  
_All of it. Intelligent and..._ He trails off. Customary silence creeps back in to stop him embarrassing himself. It's a defense mechanism, tried, tested and perfected.  
  
_And not with a head full of air?_  
  
He reaches for a pot of paste, neither agreeing nor correcting. Sticks the word 'beautiful' to the canvas, so it spills from her open, smiling mouth. 

  
  
**Mouth.**  
  
_Travis, I'm not_ fucking _drunk!_ She twists out of his arms, stalks down the hall and into the lounge, glass of wine still in her hand from the party downstairs.  
  
When she stops by his canvas, he moves quickly to stand in front of it. The last thing he wants is her puking - _hey, woah there, just put the glass down_ \- all over his work.  
  
_I'm_ not.  
  
_Look, be careful, alright? This is-_ He reaches to take the glass off her instead, but she jerks her hand, sending wine over his shoulder. Over his shoulder and the canvas. 

  
  
**Wine.**  
  
_Oops?_ Hand cupped to her mouth, as if that could hide the fact that she's giggling, and Travis wants to, _wishes_ he could be enraged. But it's endearing, it's just _cute_ , and she's warm when she presses up to him and his breath catches when she licks his neck, but he's not sure if it's because she's licking _him_ or the wine.  
  
_Maybe I'm a little bit drunker than I first... than I originally thought,_ she murmurs.  
  
The wine, then.  
  
_Maybe,_ she continues, pulling his solid, _safe_ arms around her, _you should put me to bed._  
  
_Not_ the wine, then.  
  


 


End file.
